


Titanium

by kellyh000



Series: 00Q fanfiction translations [10]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25201615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellyh000/pseuds/kellyh000
Summary: “I feel like you still need more consolation, so, do I need to hold you while you sleep, Q?”
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: 00Q fanfiction translations [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767181
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	Titanium

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Titanium](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22878835) by [cryogenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenic/pseuds/cryogenic). 



> This story is originally by cryogenic. Thank you for letting me translate your story.  
> And this is the first time that I translate a fanfiction with explicit content, so apologies if the grammar/semantic seemed weird (or wrong). I really did my best.

It was his fault; this was all his fault.

If he had got one step ahead—

Q paced back and forth in his room, panting unnecessarily, exhaling out white fog in front of his glasses.

_“I don’t know what expectations you have for your first field mission. I’ve been in a lot of situations worse than this, rookie.”_

He thought of Bond.

Oh, God, he was thinking of _Bond._

He sunk back onto the edge of the bed in frustration with his laptop sitting on the chair nearby, and the LED light was still on.

In the past several hours, he had been trying to contact with HQ, but the show mountain resort was as shabby as something that came out of a film from the1930s.

The snow was heavy, and the snowflakes were falling from the sky like scales.

Both 007 and himself would not go out in this weather, and he was almost helpless and stuck, and maybe after the great Argentinian completed his world-toppling schemes, he'd sent people to kill them.

_Wait._

He should not be wallowing in his own depression.

When MI6 recruited him, they did not mentioned anything about flying in airplanes, having dozens of Double-oh agents making outrageous demands all the time or getting tangled up with a very dangerous man and then get into an even more dangerous situation either.

 _Life was not like a movie_ , he thought. But the truth was, his life was much more dramatic than actual movies. After all, he had a job that was anything but ordinary, and neither were the people he encountered daily.

Every day, almost every day, he would see one or two people like 007. They look different, though, not everyone could be like him—unabashed and untamable amongst other things. But as time went by, Q could see the similarities in all the agents. They were all so reticent that they would not speak unless necessary. 007 was like this, and so was 001 and 005—and then he realized that they were people who no longer possessed any personal traits; they carried out their orders and live or die, all in complete silence.

Same rules applied to being injured.

It was true: Q saw Bond take a bullet for him; the bullet went straight through his arm and he saw clearly how the twisted metal tore the flesh and blood out.

And Bond did not so much as hum; he merely handed another gun to Q—not the Walther, but the Beretta he often used before. A lady’s gun.

Bond put pressure on his brachial artery in medial side of his upper arm with his uninjured hand. “I hope you know how to fire that thing,” he said and pointed at a direction with his chin. “start running towards that way, Ma’am.”

He did not get to use the gun, unlike what he predicted in the best and worst scenarios. They made it out of there, but barely. At least they were still alive.

But was staying alive enough?

Q stood out, restless, shut his laptop and marched out his room.

It was just an ordinary suite, the kind that you could see in every hotel. The tiny living room was scarcely furnished, and it only took him a few steps for him to get to Double-Oh Seven’s door. Q took a deep breath and opened the door.

The first thing he saw was Bond’s bare back, and then the hydrogen peroxide and povidone-iodine solution on the table beside him.

The room smelled like sweat, blood, and disinfectant.

Under the moonlight, the agent looked like a Greece sculpture that belonged in a museum, the only difference was man could move, and he was breathing.

The agent turned at Q’s sudden visit, and they locked gaze in silent for a moment. His look reminded Q of something else entirely—like the female skier who had been haunting him—of course, it did not work out; Bond was never into the young and had rejected her.

Hence that he was prepared to apologize for his intrusion and go back to his own territory, which he did, without apologizing first.

“Q,” but Bond said to him all of a sudden, “things like this happens a lot.” He continued to say, and the hoarseness in his voice made Q’s ears start to itch.

Double-Oh Seven was actually consoling him.

Q’s eyes were stuck onto the crumbling paint on the doorknob. _The hydrogen peroxide and povidone-iodine solution were killing his olfactory cells,_ he thought. _He did not want to stay for another second longer_.

“Does ‘ _things like this_ ’ mean doing fieldwork with a rookie who only knows how to use a keyboard and even got you shot and lost a chance to have a one-night stand?” Q tried to make himself sound completely detached.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” was Bond’s reply.

 _Good, that’s it._ Q thought. He turned the doorknob, but the person behind him was faster than him.

Bond leaped from the bed and walked right over to him, covered his hand on the knob right before he could leave.

There was a soft click.

Q tried to put on his angriest face. He wanted to question Bond why he had stopped him from leaving, but when he turned, all he could see was Bond’s face right in front of him.

He groped for words while the agent came even closer and placed his injured arm on his chest. Q shrunk back without thinking, but his heels came into contact with the door first.

There was nowhere for him to escape to. The agent was nosing almost affectionately along his face now, easily confining Q to the little space between them.

Bond’s body was cold. So was his face, his nose and his hands.

Q gently touched his wrist. “I’m sorry.”, Q said with his voice trembling.

Bond hummed. There was no amusement in his voice; it was a mere vibration in his throat with a crooked smile. “If only Moneypenny as was considerate as you, Cutie.”

Q’s lips trembled. He had something to say—the bitterness made him crave to say something, but his reason refrained him from doing so.

Eventually, he only clicked his tongue. Bond’s fingers were cold as ice as he touched his glasses. Q reached out to stop him.

“Are you always seeking compensation from people like this, Double-Oh Seven?”, he noticed how he sounded as if he had a terrible cold.

“Only from those I like,” Bond answered. He should be physically drained now, but there was a strange light in his eyes. He was staring at Q as if Q were his prey.

“Trust me, this will be good for both us.” Bond continued to say as he gently traced Q’s face.

Q gave in and allowed him to remove his glasses and hung them onto Q’s collar. Bond had already unbuttoned the first two buttons on his shirt and started to touch his collarbones. The icy touch of his Polyester glasses along with fingers that started to heat up traced his skin.

The kiss was the best one in his thirty years of life. He could not help but tangled his legs with the agent’s and rubbed against him. Bond pushed him to the door; of both his hands on Q’s hips to let him lean onto him better.

Q did not even know how they got into bed.

He lay on Bond’s bed; the burgundy mattress was so soft that it seemed it could swallow him up. Q felt his heart beating like there was a rabbit in his chest, and a heated red tide rushed from his carotid arteries to his cheeks like the ink in a feather pen.

Bond pulled out a drawer in the nightstand and was searching for something. Moments later, he produced a little bottle and two condoms.

Q slightly turned and met the agent’s lowered eyes. He touched Bond’s elbows gently. 

Bond chuckled, probably because of Q’s touch, and lowered himself to rub Q’s neck and earlobe with great care to help him relax.

The agent kissed him again, perhaps just like what he did to all of his previous lovers. He could even taste Riviera at dinner on Bond’s lips—the last bottle this year, provided by the hospital hostess with a desire in her eyes that was beyond description. And then there he was, seeing everything play out.

When his breathing had returned back to normal, Bond used his other hand to pull out his tucked shirt and touched his bony pelvis.

Anxiety and nervousness overwhelmed Q again, and his fingers dug into Bond’s shoulder in restlessness.

Perhaps he was hurting him; Bond grabbed his hand and lifted his fingers to his lips to put them into his mouth and gently biting down on the ring finger distractedly.

Q could feel Double-Oh Seven’s tongue and teeth. To be honest, his hands were far from good-looking. He always kept his nails short for his constant typing and his fingerprints were ridiculously shallow as a pianist’s. Contrary to what the public believed, but hands of pianists were not beautiful. Neither did he, a person who knew next to nothing about music.

He felt shameful to put his fingers on display for Double-oh Seven, but it seemed like Bond was getting infinite pleasure in playing his fingers; he cradled Q’s hands and kissed each of his knuckles, followed by kissing his bony wrists, his lined palms and elevated pulse.

Bond’s hand pressed against his dry and flat chest, and while there were layers of clothing between them, Q felt naked before him.

“You’re too skinny,” the agent’s voice was barely a whisper, “I can even play your ribs like a piano,” his fingertips stroked the ribs on Q’s right side meaningfully.

Bond released the hand that was holding his and crept his hand into his loose cardigan. He was not as aggressive as Q imagined he would be, such as ripping all his clothes and take it to the next step immediately, got in and out of him, and then leave without a goodbye when Q fell asleep.

The truth was Bond was a lover with the greatest patience, he peeled Q’s shells off one layer at the time, and then when Bond’s hands were on Q’s belt, Q reached out to stop him.

“Double-Oh Seven—” Q meant to remind him, but Bond grabbed both his hands and pinned them over his head with one hand.

“I only know that I’m supposed to continue,”, Bond said to him.

The wound that went through Bond’s arm was right in his face. Q suspected that if he sniffed harder, he could smell the scent of blood.

He drifted thoughts were pulled back by Bond’s whispers against his ear.

“You’re too thin. Your bones look like they belong on a woman’s.” Bond said and kissed his neck soundly. “I can even…wreck you with one hand.”

And Bond was wrecking him indeed. Bond peppered light kisses across his chest and stomach, removed Q’s glasses before he knew it and placed it on the nightstand, that and with Q’s rising temperature made everything blurry.

Bond pulled his pants down first, and Q followed suit in a hurry. They were both fully erect by now, and their boxers were stained by the leaking precum.

The agent’s head was even peeking out from his boxers.

After giving himself a few rough strokes, the agent flipped him over. Q heard liquid being squeezed behind him, and there were fingers coated in lube on his crotch. Bond’s nimble fingers were imitating a licking motion.

He could help by moaned to the sensation; but he was not entirely comfortable with moaning, so he took a corner of the pillow into his mouth and bit down on it. Bond, who was above him, let out a suppressed laugh, and his erect cock was rubbing against his legs with obvious intent.

When it came to sex, Bond was outrageously considerate. One of Bond’s hands was lubing his crotch up, and the other was touching Q lightly; from his back to his inner thighs, to the cleft of his hips, and finally, returned to Q’s cock. Bond’s both hands held him and gave Q a hand job.

Bond’s cock was lubed up and was rubbing against him; his cock was leaking, and the fluids traveled down to Q’s legs from the cleft of his arse.

The warmth where the two of them were conjoined excited Q so much that he began to tremble—not the kind of trembling he had earlier.

Bond was slicking Q up even more, but he found himself not minding the sticky feeling at all.

The first finger entered him with minimal resistance, and soon a second one followed. The agent’s fingers were flexing and abducting and adducting, expanding him. When Bond added a finger, Q was scared for an instant that Bond would pull his entire hand in, but nothing happened.

Bond remained silent while his fingers were pushing and stimulating Q to scream out loud, twisting his hips and begging for more.

Lust and desire were the whips that drove him to the point where nothing else mattered anymore.

Q turned his face to beg for Bond’s kiss, and the latter mercifully gave him plenty.

Q was reduced to a flesh that breathed, trembled and leaked precum by kisses and touches. Bond’s hand reached Q’s legs from behind him with strength that almost bruised Q.

Despite it was already unnecessary, Bond slowly twisted, scissored and expanding him.

Q could not hear himself; he could not tell whether he was crying or screaming at this point. He rubbed his face against the pillow with his mouth open, grasping air. The oxygen in the room was far from enough for him.

There was nowhere to run. Q was so caught up into a cage with nowhere to run.

Q would never know whether it was because of the agent’s slow movements or he had already lost the concept of time himself; but Q suspected that a century had passed when Bond removed his fingers. And the then-spooning made Q empty inside.

Tears glazed Q’s eyes, everything was a blur, and gasps became a lump in his throat. Bond had him lying on his back, and Q obeyed.

After he turned, he saw Bond’s face—they were so close. Bond’s cheeks were flushed red and was staring at Q with his icy blue eyes, his mouth slightly open.

Q could see himself in those eyes—crazy hair, blood-red cheeks, and he got drowned in them—everything was in slow motion—Bond closed his eyes slowly like a silent mountain full of snow, where Q would rest forever deep inside its woods.

Bond lifted Q’s right hand and held onto it and used his other hand to part his thighs and spread them on the mattress.

Bond was still holding his hand; this time, with their thumbs tangled together. Bond placed Q’s hand on his cock. Bond was so hot that Q almost couldn’t hold him—with narrowed eyes, Q saw Bond lifted himself up and pushed himself into him.

Despite the previous expansion, the initial obtrusion was far from smooth. Bond’s round head was stretching him, penetrating his tight entrance bit by bit, and the weird feeling of being so full crept up to his spine.

Q panted and was drenched in sweat. He wanted to grab onto something, but he was afraid that he would hurt Bond, so he held onto Bond’s back tightly instead.

Bond responded with soothing kisses; they landed on Q’s lower lip, coaxing him to open his mouth, which he did obligingly.

Bond licked his palate, hooked Q’s tongue with his and sucked it with a maintained pace, allowing Q to keep up with him but not quite. And then, he raised one of Q’s leg and hooked his trembling knee in the crook of his arm.

Bond buried himself to the hilt.

Q was panting hard and there was an unordinary flush in his chest. He stared at Bond, who grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under Q’s waist and began to pull in and out slightly.

It probably has some skill to it—just like kissing and killing people. Q was drenched as if he was fished out from the water. The agent’s back was covered in sweat, too, making it almost too slippery to hold onto.

Initially, Bond moved very slowly, as if he were searching something, but he managed to bury himself extraordinarily deep when he moved with such slowness.

When Bond parted Q’s internal folds and fully-penetrated his body, Q suspected that he could outline Bond’s shape should he touch himself, but it was probably just the fear in him talking—he was scared, but he wanted it to be real, too.

Q could not tell whether he was feeling hot or cold—his toes curled from the stimulation, and he called out to God, Turning or Bond.

The loud sounds of slick and sticky liquids being squeezed filled the room, and the heat and the stimulation were frying his every single of his nerve as if they were about to explode.

Bond found Q’s prostate with quick success and started to stimulate it on purpose. Q saw Bond smiling, as if he enjoyed providing his selfless services, and because he enjoyed it, he started to taking care of and pleasing him. He caressed Q’s body, from his cheeks to his Adam’s apple, to his chest, to his umbilicus to his naval, and finally to his perineum and rubbed Q’s cock and balls gently.

Bond finally looked at him with tenderness, and in the next instant, he pulled Q up with one hand to sit on his lap with and Q’s legs around his waist.

He was incredibly deep inside of Q this way, and for a second, Q almost doubted whether he’d be split into two.

They kept kissing and Q even bit Bond’s lip as he was too excited, but blood often excited people even more during sex.

The agent’s palms were holding Q by the cheeks of his arse, which was moving unapologetically, and Bond was thrusting up to meet him as well.

The sudden acceleration tipped Q over the edge and he came, screaming. Bond could not stand the sudden squeeze of Q’s hole during his orgasm either—he frowned and slowed his thrusting down, but he fucked into Q deeper and deeper, and after some rough thrusts, his balls were tightly against Q’s arse and they spasmed twice.

Bond pulled himself out fairly quickly, got rid of the condom and threw it onto the metal tray beside without care.

Q fell onto his back in defeat. He was exhausted and he regretted it. But he’d still repeat his choice should he get the opportunity to start over.

For a very long time, Q had thought Bond’s lips were hard as rock. To be specific, he thought Bond’s whole body was hard as rock. Hard without humanity and completely indestructible. It was hard to tell when he started to think of Bond that way—maybe it was at their first meeting, when he was so a young man who was delighted about being made Quartermaster and went to war by wielding all a life’s worth of pride and ignorance as his weapon.

Q got there a bit later than usual that day, and he saw an exhausted man in front of the painting by Turner. The man was in a bespoke suit, but he gave a feeling like he was covered his dust and ashes, as if he just returned from somewhere far away.

Q could not help but glanced down to study the man’s shoes and the legs, and he imagined that he would see stockings or untied shoelaces.

But he didn’t. The man was finely dressed, and then he spoke, the first word he spoke was the codename he inherited, “Q.” His lips parted like a pocket knife; he let out the syllable and then he shut himself up with a click.

In that instant, Q was sentenced to death. On one hand, he thought he left a horrible impression on Bond, on the other hand, he had fallen, quite helplessly, into the abyss that smelled of sulfur and dust. The abyss named James Bond.

Since then, every detail about Bond he learned was either associated with the legendary special agent, the Commander with no official records, or the silent boy in Skyfall lodge.

Whenever he thought he knew the man a bit better, he’d realize that there’s so much more to him that he knew nothing about.

He wanted so much more, but he knew it all-too well that this was everything Bond would give him. He couldn’t imagine how a man with everyone he ever loved was dead, most of whom are dead because of him, would handle love.

Let alone the fact that he could destroy him with one hand.

Despite this, he wanted so much more. Q opened his eyes slightly and saw the special agent’s bare back.

Maybe he should keep trying, Q thought. Stay alive and have some hope.

When the special agent bent down and wiped him clean, Q saw a white stain at the back of Bond’s ear. He guessed that it probably was his ejection, but before he could give it more thought, his lips have already touched the skin way before his mind caught up.

“God.”

 _He’s going to take me for the clingy type after one-night stands,_ Q calmly thought to himself. He could tell that Bond was far from unaffected by what he did, but he didn’t ask why he did it. Q wanted to return to his own room when everything ended for good—no, for now, but the exhaustion followed his orgasm just made him craved for sleep.

Sex, you are a tyrant ten times cruel than work. Q thought. And thank the Queen’s knight for being merciful enough to give a poor man half of the bed to sleep in.

The special agent lay next to him, and carefully left his injured arm on the covers. It took Q a while to realize that Bond suddenly reached out and was toying with a thread of his strayed hair.

“I feel like you still need more consolation, so, do I need to hold you while you sleep, Q?”

-END-


End file.
